I Wish I'd Taken Muggle Studies
by OliveOilMed
Summary: A potion has been created that has the ability to strip a wizard of their powers, and Draco has a choice between the Potion and Azkaban.
1. Prologue Muggles' Brew

Prologue  
Muggles' Brew  
__

"Quick!" Dejan Ved shouted to his assistant and apprentice, Althea. "Bring me the Selkie scales!"

The young girl rushed from the counter to the bubbling cauldron, the glass jar filled with silvery scales gripped tightly in her hands. She almost felt the urge to jump back as her wild-eyed master snatched the jar from her grasp and threw several handfuls into the bubbling cauldron. The liquid simmered and shifted rapidly from periwinkle to a bright, vibrant purple. The bursting bubbles hissed and almost seemed to shriek as they popped. But it wasn't the violent reactions of the potion that was frightening to Althea.

Dejan's eyes always took on a wild, almost animal-like quality to them, the way they always did whenever he was on the verge of creating a new potion. She had always known that her current instructor was a brilliant Potions Master; it was one of the reasons she had chosen to apprentice under him in the first place. Normally, he was quite calm and rational; but whenever he came on the verge of some new contribution to his already extensive list of created potions, he became an entirely different man.

Someone wild, someone not quite human.

Althea took a fair amount of steps back as Dejan pointed his wand to the fire simmering below the cauldron. The flames grew high violent, bursting with bright reds, oranges, and blues. The drops of potion that had spilled over the sides scorched against the sides of the cauldron, creating a horrible, smoky stench that made Althea's eyes water.

"What are you doing?" she asked, panic filling her voice and confusion rising from Dejan's behavior, which seemed so much more erratic than it ever had before. "These ingredients aren't even remotely close to what the instructions call for!"

"Instructions, instructions…INSTRUCTIONS!" Dejan muttered before seeming to come to a realization. "Get some quill and parchment. Write all this down!"

Not wanting to learn what would happen if she disobeyed her master when he was in this state, she rushed for the desk and began throwing different drawers open, looking for anything she could write with. Racing back to the workstation, she began scribbling madly about everything she saw, trying desperately to remember everything she had seen Dejan do before. While he stirred, she scrolled down the text as she tried to find the place where her master had stopped brewing Draught of the Living Dead and had begun creating this…mess.

"Flask!" he shouted out suddenly, holding out his expecting hand. "Flask, flask; Althea, GET ME A FLASK!"

Althea roamed over the long workstation, searching for anything that seemed remotely fit for use. Eventually, she found one clean flask, even though she could not find the stopper. The impatience in his tone, however, told her not to waste time looking for one. She leapt back to the cauldron, Dejan grasping he wrist painfully tight and plucked the flask from her fingers.

Dipping the ladle into the brew, gingerly, as though he thought it might combust, he slowly poured the now ruby red potion into the flask. He held the glass phial up to the lantern light, looking for any impurities or uneven mixings. But the new concoction shown through the light, clear as crystal. If Althea hadn't had a better understanding of the chemical compositions of potions, she could have sworn she heard it hum.

Dejan stared up at the flask, a now quiet, calm look in his eyes. He regarded the potion with the same fascination that a child might give to a cluster of firefly. Now all that was left was to test it.

A cage set off to the side squeaked and scurried as though they knew what was coming. This was the only part of potion making Althea could honestly say she despised. More than likely because she had seen all too often what could happen to the poor little test subjects when a potion when wrong, especially in the hands of Dejan Ved.

Reaching into the cage, Dejan grabbed one of the squirming rats. It bit and squealed wildly, but Dejan seemed oblivious to the animal's fear, walking around the lab in what seemed like a dream state.

"What is it?" Althea breathed as she gestured towards the humming flask, feeling as though she shared her master's sense of awe. "What does it do?"

"If it does what I think it does," Dejan whispered softly, almost dogmatically, "Merlin help us."


	2. Chapter 1 The People Who Look and Think

Chapter 1  
The People Who Look and Think Like You

"…and while I know that no action can undo the mistakes of my past," Lucius rehearsed, "I throw myself upon the mercy of the court in the hopes that my most sincere apologies…"

Draco felt the blood rush to his face as he held his head upside down, reclined over the arms of the chair. He had heard his father practice this speech so many times, Draco was confident that he himself could have given the testimony in front of Wizengamot.

Not that he didn't understand his father's obsessive attitude towards his rehearsal. The war was over and Lord Voldemort had been dead for months, but the trials for war criminals were only just beginning. Under the authority of the new Ministry of Magic, anyone who could be tried was. Moreover, it wasn't just proven Death Eaters. Civilians who has helped hide injured followers of Voldemort and provided other means of support were being tried as coconspirators, and a fair amount of students were being tried as spies with even the filmiest of evidence. Therefore, with the public belief that the Malfoy family had gotten away with their involvement in the first war, Wizardgamot would leap at the chance to convict every one of them when they got the chance this time; effectively snuffing out the entire family.

Across from Draco, his mother sat on the sofa, reading the morning edition of the Daily Prophet. She appeared calm, the most relaxed person in the manor, and with good reason. She was the only member of the family whose immediate future did not rest in the hands of the courts, all thanks to the benevolent efforts of 'Saint Potter'. There was no doubt in Draco's mind that the only reason his mother would not be subject to the mercy of Wizengamot was because Potter had come to the judge and regaled them with the touching story of how Narcissa Malfoy had risked her own life by lying to the Dark Lord by telling him Potter was dead.

All for the love of her family…

"The Dark Lord's power reached out into the wizarding community in ways most can never even begin to understand," Lucius continued further into his speech, now reaching the part where he played to the greatest sympathies of the war-scarred members of the courtroom. "So many have suffered under the regime of the Dark Lord and those who did not follow him willingly were made to pay, especially if the families could be branded as blood traitors. I did what I thought was necessary to protect those I love, but in then end, I was forced to learn that even those who obeyed the Dark Lord were granted little more mercy than those who fought against him…"

Draco would always find himself scoffing whenever he thought of Potter's so-called valiant efforts. Potter showed exactly how much he cared for the welfare of the Malfoy family by saying nothing to spare Lucius and Draco from their impending fate in front of the judges. Potter cared so much for Narcissa's family that he created the possibility that it would be taken away from her, leaving her all alone in Malfoy Manor. Potter had given Narcissa a life no different than when her family had been in the grips of Lord Voldemort.

"MERLIN-BE-DAMNED!" his mother suddenly screeched, halting her husband's words. "How little pride does the Ministry believe we have?"

Draco snapped his head back up just in time to see his father rushing to his mother's side. Narcissa's eyes became large and wide as though she were trying to take in every printed word in an instant. Slowly, Draco pushed himself up out of the armchair and made his way over to his mother's side. Soon enough, he was able to see exactly what had put her in such frenzy.

**Lesser Followers of Voldemort May Have Alternatives to Azkaban**

_"I can't remember the last time that the Wizengamot has faced such a cluster of trials," prosecutor Edmond Alexander says as the waiter brings our lunch. "So many proven collaborators of Lord Voldemort, each with different crimes, each getting separate trials; there simply aren't enough hours in the day!"_

_Alexander is not alone in his worries. With record numbers of trials occurring since the fall of Lord Voldemort, Ministry prosecutors are overworked with little hope of relief in the very near future. The highly publicized trials of proven Death Eaters, as the Daily Prophet has been informed, barely represent a fraction of the sheer number of cases on the impending docate of the Wizengamot._

_But a recently created potion called Minuo may bring some of the more minor cases to a close. Greece-residing Dejan Ved, the creator of the potion, could not be reached for comment, but Arthur Weasley of the Ministry has released an official statement as to the potion's effects._

_"Minuo is a potion recently created by the Potion Master, Dejan Ved. In Ministry conducted testing, it appears to suppress the drinker's natural magical abilities, chemically making them the rough equivalent of a Squib. A similar form of chemical probation is used in the Muggle justice system, highly effectively. From everything we've seen, the effects of the potion appear to be permanent and irreversible. By choosing this option, those accused will not stand trial. This would relieve the stress imposed on our legal system and spare themselves and their family's the embarrassment of a very public court battle. In the end, the Ministry believes that the more people that choose this option, the easier it will become for all those involved."_

_"There are so many witches and wizards on the docate that could go on to lead productive lives in society," Alexander explains, "I'm not certain Azkaban is the answer for a lot of them, and this potion will take away their means to reoffend._

_"The option of the potion will be restricted to spies and Death Eaters who are not charged with use of one of the Unforgivable Curses," Alexander confides. "This may not seem like much, but the decision comes as a welcome relief to me and many of my colleagues."_

_The Ministry has opened the Minuo Administration Board, of which Mr. Weasley has been appointed temporary chair of, to distribute the potion, although it has no estimates for now many people will accept the offer. Owl notification will be sent to those who are eligible._

For as silent as the manor had been, the vocallity of the Malfoy family now more than made up for it.

"Damn that Weasley!" Lucius took off first, seeming to take a great amount of restraint to not kick at the sofa his wife was seated on. "Of course that Muggle-loving blood traitor would be behind a decision like this!"

"What was the Ministry thinking when they agreed to this?" Narcissa asked, a painfully sharp shriek in her voice. "Why would they think anyone who once followed the Dark Lord would even consider…this?"

The paper taken from Narcissa's hands, Draco watched as his mother resorted to taking out her still-seemingly restrained feelings by scratching at the material of the sofa. Her nails dug deeply into the punished upholstery, leaving marks as though it were a motionless animal gored by a wildcat.

"Well, good riddence to anyone who does!" Lucius snapped as he snatched the paper from his wife, folding it in half. "Anyone who would willingly surrender their abilities just to avoid a slap on the wrist from the Wizengamot doesn't deserve to call themselves a wizard!"

"Wipe out the weak-hearted!" Narcissa pushed herself to her feet. She didn't even seem to care when her husband kicked at an umbrella stand, leaving a very visible dent in the plaster of the wall. Nor did she even bat an eye when the stand bounced back and the metal smashed against his shin, causing him to swear in an excessively loud, un-Lucius-like manner.

Back and forth, almost like a tennis match, Draco watched his mother and father argue. Although he wasn't quite sure it could be called arguing or even debating because they were agreeing with everything the other said. It was more like a pleasant conversation that they just happened to scream at each other: anger just for the sake of being angry.

Draco's father paced across the room, almost like a trapped animal, and his mother shook violently even as she stood still. Now that Draco thought about it, his family had been living much like trapped animals for these past few months. All these bottled feelings of frustration were finally starting to seep out. Even though the exchanged words were loud and escalating in intensity, the both of them still seemed restrained in their expression. But it seemed like it would only be a matter of time before they came bursting forth like water from a broken levy.

Draco went back to his armchair, taking on the role of the spectator, and allowed his parents to carry on with whatever they were doing.

"And what of the people who do choose this?" Narcissa spat out the last word of her sentence. "Within weeks, the streets will be littered with these former wizards who simply keeled over from cold or starvation."

"Then just let them!" Lucius shouted, opening the sitting room door just so he could slam it shut. "I only hope this Minniota-potion, or whatever it's called, will spread to their good-for-nothing offspring too! The last thing our world needs is any little brats raised with such weak-willed ideals! The epidemic of diluting blood is bad enough, but to introduce these whelps into…"

His father's words continued to pour out to all those who listened, but Draco decided he wasn't going to be among them. This was all part of the collective speech he had heard echoing through his family home for as long as he could remember. He didn't need to sit and listen to it slurred out once again to know what his father's opinions would be…

"Draco," his mother called out to him as he left. "Draco, where are you going?"

"Nowhere," he answered, not bothering to shut the door behind him.

What he had heard from his family just now was all the clarification he needed.

* * *

Later that night, after the house had grown dead silent once again, Draco sat up late in his bedroom. With no house elves and no servants, and certainly no in the Malfoy family who would take the time to clean, even withthe use of magic, the manor had fallen into a dingy state of chaos.

In the center of it all, Draco sat reclined against the headboard of his bed, atop the unmade and wrinkled sheets, rereading a letter he had gotten weeks ago, but that he had not even informed his parents of its existence.

_Dear Draco Malfoy,_

_As you may already know, the Ministry of Magic will soon begin the trials of Death Eaters and other conspirers of Voldemort. The sheer number of pending cases has been nothing short of overwhelming for all those involved, and there seems to be little hope of any relief in the near future._

_Due to the unpreparedness of the Wizengamot for handling such a cluster of trials, a second option is being offered to those indited with considerably lesser offences. You, Draco Malfoy, currently stand accused of conspiring with Lord Voldemort and membership as a Death Eaters. However, you have no record of performing an Unforgivable Curse during these services nor obstruction of Ministry or resistance effort. Your sentence would be mild, a few years in Azkaban at most, yet your trail would take up no less time than those convicted of more heiness crimes._

_This is why the Ministry has selected you, among a few dozen others, to participate in a pilot program the Ministry is experimenting with. Recently, a potion has been created called Minuo. The potion is still in the testing phases, but from all that has been observed, the potion chemically removes a witch or wizards natural magical abilities, making them the rough equivalent of a Squib. While this may sound like a somewhat drastic option, by choosing the Minuo Potion over your day in court, all charges will be dropped, full immunity will be given against any future involved charges, and it could very well be seen as a wonderful opportunity; a chance at a new life where no one will know where you came from or the shadows of your past._

_By not choosing this option, though, you will stand trial, and it is more than likely you will be found guilty. These trials have been highly publicized events, and the Wizengamot will not be likely to be lax on anyone associated with the pain and suffering that Lord Voldemort has caused to Muggle and wizardkind alike. Dementors, close quarters, and nothing short of pure misery day-in and day-out for what could potentially be years. While the effects of Minuo appear, by all accounts, permanent, it has the potential to spare dozens of people from immeasurable amounts of pain and suffering; pain that won't stop when the cell doors are finally opened._

_Your first court appearance is scheduled for the 17th of November. If you have not contacted the Administration Board by that date, we will know that you have decided to take your chances with the Wizardgamot._

_Whatever you choose, I wish you the best of luck.  
Arthur Weasley, Chair of the Administration Board_

Draco read the last passage of the letter again, and again, and again once more. It was a fairly generic-sounding letter, one of several dozen letters sent out to several dozen witches and wizards, a few small details specific to Draco's situation.

When the letter had first arrived, delivered right to his bedroom window and over the heads of his parents, Draco hadn't been sure what to make of it. At first, he had thought it was some kind of practical joke, especially when no other letters came for him. So either it was a joke by someone who wasn't that committed to begin with, or the Ministry wasn't truly caring about what they thought about whatever it was they believed his best interests to be.

Now that there had been an article about it in the Daily Prophet, though, there was hardly any doubting the authenticity of the letter.

However, even before he was certain the Minuo Potion was real, Draco had found himself considering the concept of it. Draco picked his wand up off the end table and began to twirl it in his fingers. It had been such an essential tool to him for so long, it had nearly become an extension of his own arm. When it had been stolen by Potter, he felt almost like an amputee, especially in the sense that even when it was gone, he could still feel it in his grip; almost like a phantom limb.

Now he knew he was going to lose it once again. Only this time, it would be up to him how he lost it: to the life of a Squib, or to a cell in Azkaban.

But his father and his mother both, in spite of it all, had been stressing the importance of pure blood and the pride attached to the Malfoy family name. How it was all still something worth maintaining and fighting to keep, no matter what the new Ministry said.

As though he were supposed to pretend he didn't hear his father staying up for days at a time simply because he couldn't face his demons in his sleep—or the shouts and screams that resulted whenever Lucius did try to sleep.

Draco read over the last paragraph of the letter one more time; the one describing all the horrors that waited for him in Azkaban, for what could possibly be more years than he wanted to consider. Of course, he didn't need this letter to tell him. When his father had been release, he had witness his frail, ragged form, so unlike the powerful, regal father he had know growing up. Replaced was the shaking, frightened man who would jump at the slightest of movement and could not even look his own family in the eye.

A man Draco had then promised himself he would never become.

Thoughtfully, Draco folded the letter into thirds and placed in the side drawer. Then he laid back onto his pillows, resting on top of the covers, in an attempt to sleep. Reminding himself that he still had the ability to sleep.


	3. Chapter 2 Easy Way Out?

Chapter 2  
Easy Way Out?

The Department of Muggle Liason, a normally quiet level of the Ministry of Magic, was today a bustling scene of mad chaos. For now, the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office found itself the temporary home of the Minuo Administration Board. Back and forth through the stone hallways, Ministry employees raced with alternating armloads of papers and glass phials, some empty, some filled with a ruby-red potion the could be heard hissing through the glass. Occasionally, people with hooded cloaks would slip in and out of doors, sometimes passing one another, but never speaking.

And despite the heavy wool hood covering most of his face, Draco could see all this very clearly from his seat on one of the hall's cold stone benches.

The minimum of human contact made for an isolating atmosphere. Not that Draco couldn't understand the reasons behind it. Anyone who fell under the ruling of the Minuo Act would more than likely be from proud, pureblood families.

"Number twenty-four," a young woman's called out into the hallway. "Number twenty-four."

It was then that Draco remembered the number he had been given when he first stepped off the lift: number twenty-four; a relatively small effort of preserving what was left of his dignity. Draco rose from his seat on the bench and approached the witch. There was a glazed, flat look in her eyes, with the rest of her expression relaxed, but heavily bored. Her lack of response even led Draco to wonder, as he approached her, if she even saw him.

"Please give me your name," the woman stated suddenly, startling Draco, though she showed no reaction to this either.

At first, Draco barely whispered his name, hoping that all the previous gestures of maintaining the dignity of the Minuo recipients would still be in place. But the young witch not-so-subtly demonstrated that Draco had no right to expect anything. "I'm sorry. Could you say that louder please?"

She said this last sentence loud enough that Draco was sure everyone on the floor had heard her.

"Draco Malfoy," he repeated, this time at a reasonable decibel level.

"Thank you." The woman scrawled Draco's name onto her clipboard and then turned on her heels. "Please follow me."

The witch did not wait for Draco before she started down the hall, nor did she even bother to glance over her shoulder to make sure he was following her. For a moment, Draco wondered what would happen if he _didn't_ follow her. What if he simply Apparated out of the Ministry and never came back? That zombie of a Ministry worker probably wouldn't even notice him disappear, and even if she did realize he was gone, she would be too lazy to do anything about it. Who knows; she may even mark him down as having taken the potion anyway just to avoid all that paperwork.

Draco could run back to the manor and pack a small bag. He might even tell his parents what he did so they could go on the run with him. They would all go to some tropical country on the ocean where most of the citizens spoke no English and no one even knew what a Death Eater was. His father and mother would easily be able to live the rest of their lives on their savings in a country where a loaf of bread cost less than a Knut. And in countries like that, where superstition still ran rampid, Draco could use his magic to become a witch doctor (because he would still _have_ his magic). One day, Draco would heal an old man to the point where he felt a though he were twenty years old again, and he would be so grateful, he would offer Draco his beautiful daughter's hand in marriage. She would teach Draco her native language, they would live in a house built on the side of a cliff, and Draco would teach their children magic himself so they would never grow up to be ashamed of the Malfoy family name.

A crashing sound heard from behind the door of one of the private rooms brought Draco out of his imagined future and back into reality. And the longer he was there, the more he was forced to point out everything that was wrong with his almost-plan.

First of all, if leaving Britain _had_ been an option, certainly his father, who had a lot more to lose from a guilty verdict, would have already considered it. And though Draco was only thought of as a reletivly minor war criminal for the time being, that would all change the moment he fled. As soon as he set foot out of the country, every Auror in the Ministry would be assigned the task of tracking him down, with Potter more than likely leading the cavalry.

And though Draco knew his mother would do near anything for him, deep down, she was still very much a Black. Narcissa had become accustomed to a life of luxury and pride, and up until now, she had never been denied anything less. So Draco knew his mother would hardly be able, even if she was willing, to abandon the life she had made here to live in a shack in some third world country.

Draco had to be becoming desperate, he realized, especially when he remembered his scenario future included him marrying a Muggle and having her halfblood children. He doubted his parents would find that little more honorable than having a son who had chosen the life of a Squib.

Draco's thoughts ended just in time for him to watch the listless witch unlock the door to one of the private rooms, the latch clicking with an echoing finality to it. She held the door open and allowed Draco to pass in front of her. Inside the room was a small table with a lone chair sitting facing them, as though it had been waiting for the two of them to arrive. Resting on the table top was a cylinder flask containing the same crimson liquid Draco had seen being rushed back and forth through the hallway.

"Please take a seat, Mr. Malfoy," the woman instructed him, waiting in a near trancelike state for Draco to do as he was told.

Eventually, Draco complied. Though he made sure to take his time, all the same, as he walked towards the waiting chair. For a fair amount of time, he just sat there, waiting for instructions. 'Drink up and shut up' seemed far too simple fr that to be all there was to it. The woman's foot tapped impatiently, her eyes continuing to shift between her watch and the doorway, as though she could not leave the tiny, cell-like room fast enough.

"What?" he snapped at her. "You're going to watch me drink this?"

She nodded, as though the words Draco had put forth were a true question. "Believe it or not, the Ministry still doesn't place a lot of trust in Death Eaters and conspirerers. Until that potion is gone, you're still considered a threat in the eyes of the Minuo Administration Board."

Draco stared up at the girl and sneered at her, the solution that had carried him all through his Hogwarts years. However, the girl sneer right back, locking them in a ridiculous sort of combat, until he finally realized how ridiculously childish the two of them were behaving. Warily, he unscrewed the lid to the flask. The humming sound he _believed_ he heard before became much louder, the sound exploding in a single loud pop at first, from being contained, then softer, though still continuous.

Slowly, Draco took his first sip of the potion. The Minuo Potion had a heavy aste to it, but one that Draco couldn't really distinguish as being sweet, bitter, or anything else. As Draco swallowed, he could feel the liquid cling against his teeth, the roof of his mouth, and eventually the back of his throat. He could even feel the potion humming from the inside out.

The young woman continued to stare at Draco, impatient yet apathetic, waiting for him to finish the potion. He had already taken _one_ sip of the potion; there was no turning back now. She must have seen a dozen witches and wizards already drink this potion today.

Taking a deep breath, Draco quickly gulped down the rest of the Minuo Potion, the thick liquid clinging to his throat. And just like that first sip, he could feel the potion holding tight against the inside of his body.

"Wonderful," she droned once Draco had taken his first sip. "Now, if you'll just stay here, a representative from the Ministry will be in to speak with you shortly."

Confident that she no longer had to play Draco's baby-sitter, she pulled the door open in a rushed manner, but then stopped to look back, the silver tongue hiding behind her pursed smile making a low strike.

"As though you are going anywhere."

There might have been a time in Draco's life when he never would have allowed a comment like that to go unanswered. Unfortunately, for Draco, he did not know that time had ended the moment he took that first sip of the Minuo Potion. He stood up with every intention of following that witch back out the door and giving her a piece of his mind, but soon enough found himself sinking back down into his seat under the influence of a very distinct lack of energy. The potion, so thin when it had first touched his lips, had begun to take on the consistency of paste. As with the first small sip, he could now feel every drop of it clinging to his insides, slowly absorbing his energy with the more time that passed.

And he felt it all.

If Draco would ever find himself forced to describe the feeling of the Minuo Potion taking effect, he would probably feel it akin to the flame of a lantern being doused with dripping candle wax—still able to burn to some extent, but slowly putting itself out as it fought to keep itself burning. And slowly, he began to feel a large portion of his energy slipping away. Not physical energy that kept one standing on his own two feet, but still, something Draco was slowly finding he had come to relay on all these years. As all this happened, Draco's posture began to slouch more and more so until he eventually lay with his upper body slumped over the table top; his eyes beginning to glaze over, reminding him of all too many days in History of Magic when no one would find being in such a state alarming.

But now, the paralyzing feeling was spreading to every limb and every digit of his body. Eventually, Draco could not even twitch his fingers in front of his face or wiggle his toes inside his shoes. Part of Draco worried whether this was to be expected when taking the potion; no one had told him. He considered calling out to the witch he spoke to before to ask her, but soon found his voice to be quite useless as well when all he could manage were a few intangible hissing noises.

All he truly found himself able to do was lie there and think about how he may have rushed into all this, the kind of thoughts that always came to people whenever it was too late to put any of them into practice, just like it was too late for Draco. That bright red potion had already taken its claim on his future.

And then red became black.

* * *

Dimly, Draco became aware of the room around him, the same private room that the Ministry witch had taken him to when she had first given him the Minuo Potion. Then it all came rushing back to him. Before, he had been resting in a comfortable daze where he didn't have to remember what had brought him here.

When Draco returned to full consciousness, he became very aware of a pounding in his head and a weakness in his legs. Although, the problems with his head may have had something to do with the fact that his head had slammed against the table when he had surrendered to the blackness. He rubbed his forehead, certain that it was either red or bruised.

Suddenly, the sharp sound of the door unlatching brought his attention back to the front of the room. He watched, trying to focus his eyesight, as a magenta-robed figure squeezed her way through the cracked door opening. As soon as she turned her head to see Draco, she nearly jumped seat the sight of the young man somewhat awake and staring right back at her.

"Hello, Sleepy Head," an irritatingly bright voice shattered through the silence. "I trust you had a good nap."

She was a squat witch with folds of fat bulging out all around her middle, her voice sweet like a rotten peach. Her sandy hair was cut into a stylish bob, but it did little in the way of improving her appearance. Draco suddenly found himself thinking of his former teacher, Professor Umbridge, minus that annoying little giggle of hers. However, he had only just met this woman, so who was to say there would not be something about her that made her even worse.

"You must be Mr. Malfoy," she said, taking a seat across from him, the chair screeching painfully as she dragged it across the floor. "Nobody told me you would be so handsome."

Draco sneered at the woman who apparently believed he was so dim as to not see right through her. In the back his mind, he thought to tell himself that he was right; this woman _was_ worse than Umbridge.

"Let's take care of a few technicalities before we get into all that," she remarked, drawing out a clipboard much like the one the bored young witch had been carrying before. "Please draw you wand, Draco."

Not taking his eyes off the clipboard, as though he hoped he might be able to read the small type upside down, he pulled his wand from his coat pocket.

"Now, I would like you to attempt a simple spell for me just to make sure the potion has truly taken effect. Oh, I know!" she said, gesturing with her index finger. "A simple levitation charm, please."

She set her red-tipped quill on the surface of the table, right in front of Draco. "Well, go ahead," she prompted, sounding slightly impatient.

Blinking his eye rapidly, in an effort to shake away the dream-like state surrounding him, Draco pointed his wand at the quill, feeling a slight involuntary twitch in his fingers.

"_Wingardium Leviosa,_" he spoke, flicking his wand in the well-practiced movement.

Nothing. The quill remained very much on the surface of the table, the soft edges of the feather not even drifting from the draft.

"Excellent!" the woman cheered in a tone far too happy for what had just happened. "The Minuo Potion has taken full effect. Your magical abilities have been effectively suppressed."

Draco glared up at the woman, knowing full well that a sneer was spreading across his expression. He didn't care. He had never met a more tactless person in his life. He had just lost his _magic_, for Merlin's sake! One did not go into a hospital and ask someone who had just had their legs and clap for joy! Draco felt his hands clench and his fingernails scrap across the table top. He wondered to himself if he was leaving marks.

"Now, I suppose we should introduce ourselves," she said in that same painfully cheery voice. "Well, I already know who you are, but you don't know me." The woman took her quill back, but left her clipboard resting in her lap as she focused all her attention on Draco. "My name is Clemence Vaughan. I am the Ministry worker who will be in charge of overseeing your case on a personal level."

"Pleasure," Draco answered dryly, a triumph consider he was fighting the urge to strangle this woman with his bare hands. He had no other means of doing it now.

"Let me just explain what that will mean," Clemence continued along pleasantly. She made herself extremely comfortable in her bare wooden chair, as though what were taking place was just a relaxing conversation between old friends. "I will be checking on you personally once a week. I'll be able to take you out to dinner, and the best part is the Ministry is paying for it."

Draco grimaced painfully, hoping it came across as looking somewhat like enthusiasm. The woman kept on chatting, so he assumed she sensed no animosity between the two of them.

On and on, the Ministry employee, Clemence, spoke to Draco about his brand new future. He fought the urge to allow his mind to wander the way it always had during long lectures in school. What was being said here was far more important than the Great Goblin Uprising of 1233. For all he knew, he could miss one vitally important piece of information and because he didn't know it he—he might not be allowed to use any of the lavatories out in the Muggle world.

"There will be no means of financial welfare, but I _will_ help you find resources that will help you get a job and a place to live."

Draco nodded, he might have thought as much. Luckily, the Malfoy name and fortune would still be able to offer him some means of monetary support, as long as he could get to Gringotts before anyone could inform his parents of what he had done.

"Do you have any friends or family in the Muggle community that would let you stay with them for a while?"

Slowly, Draco shook his head no. Clemence gave a high-pitched huff under her breath. With a flourished wrist movement, she flipped the first paper over the top of the clipboard and scanned down the second sheet.

"Do you know anyone else who has selected the Minuo option?" Clemence suggested. "We would like to try and keep good friends together if at all possible."

"None of my old friends would have ever admitted that they took the Minuo Potion."

Draco's condescending tone must have become a lot more obvious in that sentence, because Clemence cast him with a disapproving look; the kind that mothers use on their children when they said a bad word without knowing what it meant.

"I have to tell you, Draco, you are not making this easy for me," Clemence confessed, shaking her head like a disapproving mother, while still managing to keep that sickeningly sweet tone in her voice. "Before taking the potion itself, a lot of the recipients made sure they would have some kind of safety net out in the Muggle world. They either had friends among the Muggles, family, or had researched boarding houses. Maybe it you had not procrastinated so much with your decision, the transition would have been a lot easier…"

Draco groaned and leaned back in his chair. He was having a hard time believing he was getting an attitude lecture from a woman he had just met; a woman who, in theory, was supposed to be working for him.

"Not that I'm complaining, mind you," Clemence said, as though trying to reassure him after having just insulted him. "I knew when I took this job that it would not be easy. People who were associated with the Death Eaters had…well, very little reason to make ties with the Muggle community. But excuses like that are not going to help you anymore, Draco. Life is only going to get harder from here. You'll either stand or you'll fall, and whatever happens, it will be nobody's fault but your own. Help comes to those whom help themselves, Draco."

Thankfully, the woman's heinously annoying chatter was brought to an end by the room's door opening, earning a sharp squeak from the unoiled hinges as it did. "Excuse me." A man stepped out from behind the opening door.

It took a few moments for Draco's brain to register recognition of the somewhat-familiar face. It was Arthur Weasley. He should have known in an instant from the graying red hair and the faint freckles hiding in a growing amount of wrinkles. Granted, Draco had only seen Mr. Weasley a handful of times in his life, and never for very long. Usually, it was only long enough for him and his father to exchange curt insults (and the occasional fist fight), and then they would be one their ways, both men still fuming long afterwords.

But this time, Draco had never been more happy to see anyone in his life.

"Mr. Weasley," Clemence greeted him with some surprise, rising to her feet. "I didn't think you would be in today. There really isn't a lot happening, just the Ministry sifting its way through the Minuo recipients. I was just getting ready to take young Mr. Malfoy—"

"That's quite alright," Mr. Weasley interrupted. "I'll be escorting Mr. Malfoy out of the building."

_You are a saint!_ Draco thought to himself as he relaxed in his chair. Whatever taunting or ridicule Mr. Weasley had planned, it couldn't be any worse that having to suffer through another moment with his new baby-sitter, Clemence.

"Mr. Weasley," Clemence spoke in an annoyed tone, but causiously keeping her emotions in check. "I know that the Minister must have a great deal of confidence in you to place you as director of the Minuo Administration Board, but I do have some authority over my own clients and I believe—"

"You'll be seeing him every week for the rest of your career." Mr. Weasley, however, seemed to have no trouble keeping his voice calm. "I doubt one missed meeting will jeopardize his transition into the Muggle world."

Draco could tell that Clemence had a few choice words dancing on the end of her tongue, but in an amazing show of self-control, she bit them back and with a curt nod, excused herself from the room. With the door slamming shut, causing both men in the room to jump, Mr. Weasley turned to Draco and met him with an expression completely devoided of animosity or mocking. In fact, Draco wasn't even sure he could identify the emotion behind the look Mr. Weasley was giving him.

"Mr. Malfoy," Mr. Weasley said to the younger man. "Draco, please come with me."


	4. Chapter 3 Shaming the Ancestors

**Chapter 3  
Shaming the Ancestors  
**

"I don't imagine this was an easy decision for you," Mr. Weasley said sympathetically, wringing his hands as the two men walked.

Draco nodded as his finished stuffing the rest of his new paper Muggle money into his new 'wallet'. He had completely emptied his personal account and had all the Galleons freshly changed into 'pounds'. He wasn't entirely sure that his parents would cut him off from the account once they found out about what they had done, but then, he had never though he would have to choose between his status and a life in Azkaban. And he was not about to take any chances out in this brave new world. If being a Malfoy had taught him anything, it was that money could get a person through just about anything.

"Alright!" Mr. Weasley clapped his hands together. "Well, before we actually release you out into Muggle society, we have to have a game plan; a basic idea of what you're going to have to do to keep from starving to death your first week out there."

Draco allowed the older man to rattle on about the trials and tribulations of his new position while he pretended to be somewhat interested. This had to be the most fascinating thing to happen in Mr. Weasley's career in decades. Draco's father had told him all about Mr. Weasley's work in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department, and Draco could only imagine what a terribly occupation that had to have been. Let the Muggle-lover have his moment, Draco might as well finish his last few moments in the wizarding world on a good deed.

The conversation and the leading eventually brought the two men into the back offices of Gringotts that Draco had never known existed. Of course, he had never thought about what was in the interiors of the bank or what employees other than the goblins needed them for. When the Slytherins had been given their career counseling, he had barely even looked at the banking pamphlets. It had never been something of an interest to him. Maybe he should have done more reading up on it. Aside from a different currency and notably fewer Egyptian curses on gold to worry about, how different could Wizarding and Muggle banking really be?

"I just need to finish setting up your financial support from the Administration account, and then I suppose you'll want to be provided with a list of Muggle banks where you can set up a new account."

Draco didn't tell Mr. Weasley that whatever temporary support the Ministry had to offer would be miniscule in comparison to his own limited Gringotts account. He somehow had a feeling the time would soon come when he would be eternally grateful just to have that small bit of gold hidden away.

"Is there anything else I can get for you before you set out?"

Draco considered the question thoughtfully. This might very well be the last favor he would be granted by the wizarding world.

"An owl," Draco told him, "and a quill and some parchment."

From what Draco could see, there was only one thing he could really do after coming so far.

Mr. Weasley nodded in a way that attempted to be professional and devoid of any emotion. "Just give me one moment." And with that, Draco was alone in that tiny, hidden office.

All by himself, Draco felt his eyes shift from side to side, scaling over the blank walls. He couldn't help but be reminded of the small, boxy room within the Ministry where he had actually been given the Minuo Potion. Most of the initial side effects he had suffered from the administration were long since gone. He was no longer feeling weak or unbalanced on his feet, but that was not to say he felt completely back to normal. His limbs felt oddly looser than he remembered them before; he was almost afraid that his new lack in coordination might lead him to accidentally smack himself in the face. Wouldn't that be a wonderfully dignified way to introduce himself to the Muggle world?

In the end, Draco wasn't left very much time alone with his thoughts, because Mr. Weasley emerged back through the door after only a few minutes. In one hand, he held a roll of parchment and a quill set, and in the other, there was a large birdcage containing a tawny owl ruffling its feathers. It was almost as though the Ministry had the little creatures waiting on reserve.

"You do understand you will have to be extremely careful about keeping an owl from now on," Mr. Weasley said as he handed the owl over. "Most Muggle cities have strict regulations on what can and cannot be kept as pets. If the wrong person sees it, it will be gone before you can say, 'Special Delivery'."

Keeping the owl had not even come to Draco's mind. He couldn't even think of anyone he would want to use an owl to talk to now that he had taken the Minuo potion. Draco wondered if this was a courtesy extended to all who took the Minuo Potion or if Mr. Weasley was doing this out of some strange obligation he felt to the younger boy. "I'm going to be allowed to keep it?"

"Of course," Mr. Weasley answered. "This program is new, so we do not have a lot to offer in terms of services. But we can at least provide the Minuo recipients with a means of communicating with their friends and family."

There was a hint of pity in Mr. Weasley's voice that told Draco that even Arthur Weasley knew that Draco didn't have anyone in the Wizarding community who would speak with him now.

"I'll let you have a moment," Mr. Weasley said as he left. "If you would like to write a letter right now, that is."

Draco offered a curt nod, telling Mr. Wealsey that yes, that was indeed what he wanted right now. With the door clicked shut and Draco left alone in the tiny box room once again, he dipped the quill into the ink well and began what would likely be one of his very last communications with the Wizarding world.

_Dear Mother and Father,_

Even as I write this letter, it is already too late for anything to be done, at least by magical means. You have already heard about the Minuo Act that the Ministry has put forth, so I will not waste your time by explaining it. I will also not waste any ink in telling you the thinking that went into doing what I have done. I was given the option of taking the Minuo Potion instead of going to Azkaban, and I took it. It is as simple as that. I am now very much a Squib.

You should also know that you will more than likely not be seeing me for a long time. I know how much value you both place on the Malfoy family name, so I will not further disgrace it by forcing you to tell the world that your son is a blood traitor. You can tell you friends whatever you like; that I am abroad or I am dead. I will do nothing to make them suspect otherwise.

I cannot tell you how you can reach me, for I don't even know where I will be staying immediately. My life will probably be quite chaotic for some time. If, however, you find yourselves needing to reach me for some reason, there is an official at the Ministry who is in charge of overseeing my case. Her name is Clemence Vaughan, and she will be meeting with me once a week, so she will surely have a good idea of where I am. If you need to know anything, you can contact her.

I just want you both to know that I never meant to shame you, and I hope against hope that I will have the opportunity to see you again one day.

Your son,  
Draco

A soft knock at the door begged permission to reenter, and Draco noncommittal grunt was taken as a grant in permission. Mr. Weasley peaked his head inside slowly, almost as though he feared being attacked.

"Are you finished, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco nodded, but didn't look up to make eye contact. He didn't trust himself to keep the well-known Malfoy demeanor, and he was not about to let a _Weasley_ bear witness to its breakage.

"There is an owl landing just outside the corridor," Mr. Weasley told him, not showing any reaction to Draco's own emotions. "If you're ready to send it off, I can take you there."

Draco stood to his feet without a word, keeping his eyes on the floor as he made his way to the doorway. He followed Mr. Weasley down the bank corridor, which was more or less empty, save for the occasional black-clad goblin; and they certainly did not care who Draco was or how he had come to be here. The orangish glow of the torches soon gave way to white as they approached the owl landing, where a few idle owls waited, nearly on the verge of sleep.

Mr. Weasley opened the door to the bird cage and allowed the tawny owl inside to climb out onto his sleeve. With his free hand, the man reached out to take Draco's letter, which he still held clenched tightly in his fingers. He was almost reluctant to hand it over, yet it somehow ended up in Mr. Weasley's hand, then handing it over to the perched owl. The little creature took it up obediently and took off suddenly, startling the lazy owls on the landing into alertness. As the owl became smaller and smaller in the distance, Draco felt that previous lump in his throat return and his eyes begin to sting in a way that could not be blamed on dust or any other external source.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy," he suddenly heard Mr. Weasley say. "I don't believe I've said that yet, but I truly am."

Draco kept his back to the man as he spoke. He didn't trust what his own reaction would be if he were forced to stand face to face with another human being right now.

"But dwelling isn't going to help us any now, is it?" Mr. Weasley clapped his hands together. "We have a lot of planning to do."

Once the owl had flown completely from his sight, Draco left the window to return to stand beside Mr. Weasley. He might have been a blood traitor, but as of this moment, he was the only wizard Draco had at his side. Letting his pride dictate is decisions was simply not an option anymore.

* * *

"The first thing you are going to need is a place to live," Mr. Weasley continued on. "That, you should most definitely take care of today. Otherwise, you'll end up spending your first night in London in a bus shelter, and that would not be a pleasant experience."

Draco didn't suppose Mr. Weasley had a list or a map for him to go off of. Draco certainly had no way of knowing where to go, but then he supposed no self-respecting wizard would know either.

Draco did have to give Mr. Weasley a bit of credit; Draco was not thrown out onto the Muggle streets the moment the owl took off. In a way, though, it seemed somewhat harder to do it _that_ way. Still, his fingers clenched tightly to the handle of the cage and the tawny bird inside tucked its head underneath its wing. Draco began subconsciously seeing it as one of his few remaining links to the Wizarding world.

"Once you have an actual address, you can start looking for work. It's good that you have some money of your own to help you get by, but believe me, it won't last you for very long, especially after you start paying rent…"

Mr. Weasley spoke of Muggle matters in a very high energy manner. He was almost euphoric. Were Draco in a more cynical mood, he might have wondered—and possibly even said aloud—why didn't Mr. Weasley just chug down the potion himself and go off and join the Muggles himself. But given his current condition, it just wasn't in him to even mutter the word Minuo.

"One last farewell drink before you leave us, Draco?" Mr. Weasley asked, gesturing towards the bar.

Draco eyes darted all around the interior of the pub while he procrastinated with his response. The two of them had been dawdling inside The Leaky Cauldron for nearly an hour now, as the Mr. Weasley himself were trying to build up the nerve to actually throw a boy like Draco out into the world.

Draco might have resisted the notion months ago, but the sense of resignation that was just taking hold did wonders to change that behavior. "Sure…Arthur. Why not?"

Mr. Weasley smiled at him and took a seat at one of the bar stools. He raised his hand to the pub owner to get his attention. The man brought two tankards of ale and left the two men alone to their conversation. Mr. Weasley was well known enough, but Draco wondered to himself it the pub owner would recognize him, even though Draco had never been inside the Leaky Cauldron himself more than a handful of times in his life. And if the pub owner did recognize him, what sorts of rumors and stories would he start spreading as to why the two men were drinking together.

"What am I supposed to do with my wand, exactly?" Draco asked suddenly, his first real question since requesting an owl.

"Oh, you can keep it if you wish," Mr. Weasley told him. "It's not as though there is much use in snapping it when you can't even use it."

Draco nodded thoughtfully, his hand reaching for his concealed wand still resting in his pocket. Mr. Weasley tattered on with all he knew about the Muggle world, but Draco was not paying enough attention to learn anything of use. Instead, he stared at the tankards, watching the ale inside go lower and lower until the glasses were completely empty.

"Ready to depart from us then, Mr. Malfoy?" Mr. Weasley finally asked. "Draco?"

Of course Draco wasn't ready. He would never really be ready. If it were up to him, he probably would have elected to live out the rest of his life in that pub. But somehow, that didn't stop him from standing to his feet and following Mr. Weasley in that same automatic sort of way he had been doing all day.

Soon enough, Draco was led through the tiny pub door out into the cluttered alley. He couldn't even clearly recall walking through the door himself. When he found himself truly alert, he saw Mr. Weasley still standing inside the pub, taking great care not to have his feet cross over the line between the Wizarding world and the Muggle one, as though the man finally did seem to notice the great barrier that existed between the two worlds.

"Alright, Draco," Mr. Weasley said, stepping back towards the pub door. "Best of luck to you then."

Draco nodded in reply, and with that, Mr. Weasley disappeared back into the Leaky Cauldron, leaving Draco alone on the sidewalk.

Blinking his eyes and turning his head to the side, Draco tried to see what it was that kept Muggles from stumbling through the pub door. Some sort of spell or charm was supposedly in place to protect it, but it just looked like any other storefront in the alleyway. Maybe even though he didn't technically have magic anymore, he still wasn't a Muggle, so he could still see the way in. Maybe Muggles couldn't even see the door.

Draco considered trying to open the door again himself, and, in fact, almost did. But then he considered that Arthur Weasley might still be there. That he might believe Draco had changed his mind and make a big scene about taking him back to the Ministry. And even if Mr. Weasley had left, a good number of people who saw him walk in and out of the pub, and who knew what they would believe. So Draco thought the better of it and took his hand off the doorknob, turning instead to the city at his back.

It was official; Draco Malfoy had been shut out of the Wizarding world for good.

* * *

Draco had only been to the part of London outside of Diagon Alley a handful of times, and never for any extended period. His parents were always too disgusted at the notion of being surrounded by Muggles to ever stay for very long. As a consequence, Draco never got to know the city very well, and certainly didn't know it well enough to go wandering off on a whim.

He did, however, start in the most logical, most familiar form of Muggle transportation he knew: the train.

Then, Muggles demonstrated their first bit of usefulness or even intelligence. Draco saw a sign; a large, bright green, idiot-proof sign pointing his way to the train station. It appeared to be pointing toward a flight of stairs actually going _under_ the pavement. Odd, but Draco was not about to doubt such a glaring form of directions, lest the Muggle population be led to believe he was truly that dim. So Draco made his way down the stairs while people stared at his caged owl and his robes.

The underground station was crowded; Draco knew it would be. He had been to Kings Cross dozens of times, so of course he knew that train stations were full of people. Maybe it was the fact that it was underground or that he was likely the only wizard there that made it feel so confining.

_Muggles can't even build a substandard train station,_ Draco thought silently before remembering he was now one of these people. _I can't believe I'm really one of them._

But Muggle now or not, he still could not help but feel dirty from just coming in contact with the underground train station. Ash, garbage, and bits of food were smeared over the floor in a grimy layer, and Draco could faintly make out the footprints of the people just ahead of him.

Maps and signs were hanging everywhere, but they were of absolutely no use to Draco, who had no idea of where he was or where he was going. Chances were that the crowd as a whole knew what they were doing, so Draco simply followed with the current. It was going well enough until he came upon some odd metal-spoaked wheel resting between silvery columns. Everyone else seemed to be able to pass through with no trouble, and it only seemed suitable that Draco would be the one who was stopped.

"Whoa, there, boy!" a man in a blue uniform held his arm out in front of Draco. "Where do you think you're going?"

"On the train." Draco thought that much was obvious.

The uniformed man stared down from his superior height, and Draco couldn't help but feel a bit intimidated, especially now that his wand was of no use to him.

"Not without a ticket, boy," the man told him. "This isn't a free ride."

Draco nearly found himself reaching for his wand out of reflex, but he stopped himself soon enough.

"Alright," Draco finally relented. "Where do I get a ticket then?"

The uniformed man groaned as though he himself were annoyed by Draco. "You can get one either from the booth," he pointed to a horrendously long line of people, "or from one of the automated ticket machines."

There were at least seven machines, and a few of them didn't even have people waiting in front of them. The small amount of people who were gathered around them appeared able to get their tickets with no fuss and without having to deal with of the train station's highly rude personnel. Any idiot off the street could have seen what the logical choice would have been.

It couldn't be that difficult to figure out the Muggle contraption. There were so many idiotic people he had seen so far today, and they seemed able to use them. It was a large, silvery 'window' covered with colorful 'buttons'. Suddenly, it dawned on Draco that this was the first real Muggle device that he had ever seen up close.

Draco straightened his spine and looked the window straight in the…straight on. "Ticket, please."

Nothing. The paper bill was still in Draco's hand and there was no sign that it was going to be traded for a train ticket.

"Didn't you hear me?" Draco asked the machine. "I need a train ticket!"

Still nothing. Apparently, the machine was not threatened by intimidation either. Finally, Draco took slightly more drastic measures and began slamming his fists against the silver window, hoping at the very least, it would respond to pain.

"Give me a bloody ticket, you damned contraption!"

People were surely staring at him, but at the moment, Draco didn't care. If the Muggles had a problem with the way he treated their devices, they shouldn't have made them so difficult for newcomers to use.

Suddenly, Draco felt a tug at his sleeve. "Mister," he heard someone say. "You need to push the buttons."

Draco looked around for the source of the voice, but he found himself alone. At least until he finally looked down. Standing beside him was a little girl, couldn't have been more than eight, with a yellow balloon tied to her wrist and no parents in sight.

"Here." The little girl took the bill and stepped in front of the machine. "Let me."

The girl pushed Draco aside so she could have full view of the window. After a series of quickly typed buttons, the window chimed mechanically, as though it were trying to speak to her. And the little girl seemed to understand it.

"Where is it you need to go?" she asked him, glancing over her shoulder to look Draco in the eye.

Draco shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes. "Why don't you surprise me?" _Dirty little Muggle whelp…_

He was going to have to stop thinking that about every person he came in contact with.

In an almost lax manner, the little girl allowed the machine to consume the bill and began to push a series of buttons in a way that was so practiced, she didn't even have to look at the 'window'. A high-pitched mechanical sound dinged and a white slip of paper popped out of the window from yet another slit in the metal.

"Here you go," she said, handing Draco the piece of paper. "You should come in here and practice when you don't need to catch a train. Then you can get really good at buying tickets, and it won't take you so long to get on the train."

"I'll keep that in mind," Draco told her, snatching the ticket away from her and shuffling away as fast as he could.

This time when he tried to pass through the metal wheel, the uniformed man gave him no attitude. In fact, he even pretended not to recognize Draco, so as not to humiliate himself when Draco flashed his train ticket. And Draco couldn't help but feel a smug sense of satisfaction as he moved along with the crowd which eventually led him to the door of the silvery train, which was right where the sense of satisfaction ended.

People were crammed into the car like rats, packed shoulder to shoulder. There weren't even enough seats for everyone, but Draco was fairly certain he didn't want one. Everyone who did have a seat was either old or sickly-looking, and there was no telling what sorts of terrible Muggle diseases he could get from sitting down beside them. Better to just ride standing with all the healthy people.

Draco, however, was not allowed a great amount in _where_ he would be standing. The moment he tried to move forward, he found himself caught. His first instinct told him that someone was grabbing the back of his jacket, but he was standing right up against the wall, so there was absolutely no room for anyone to be standing behind him. Draco tried to glance over his shoulder, but it was a futile effort, as whatever it was that was stopping him from moving forward was also stopping him from side to side; at least in any way that was remotely useful. The only thing he did succeed in was getting a good portion of the passangers to stare at him and a few schoolchildren to point and snicker as he flailed about like a turtle on its back.

Finally, a frail old man with hair growing out of his ears leaned over and informed Draco that the back of his robes had been caught in the automatic doors and Draco would not be able to get free until the next stop. Draco was thoroughly annoyed, but he had already learned from experience that it was pointless to try and argue with any sort of Muggle contraption, so he simply hung by his jacket with as much dignity as humanly possible. As though he weren't attracting enough attention with the caged owl dangling from his left hand.

Actually, the 'hanging' part had probably been a bad idea, for as soon as the train came to its next stop, the doors promptly opened without warning, causing Draco to fall hard against the filthy train floor. Now, some of the slightly older passengers on the train joined in the laughing as well. So once again, with as much dignity as possible, Draco scrabbled to his feet and grabbed hold of one of the poles that kept the other passengers from falling flat on their faces. With his head held high, the former wizard did his best to ignore the few people who continued to snicker behind their fisted hands.

At the very least, the people who had all seen him fall eventually cleared out of the train, giving way to a brand new crowd of people crammed in shoulder to shoulder.


End file.
